


curtains, or, love in the springtime

by TobermorianSass



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M, Humor, Minor Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, probably anachronisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 05:52:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12358869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/pseuds/TobermorianSass
Summary: Sansa the dashing star of Britain's silver screen needs a leading man to match her. Willas Tyrell obliges. Unfortunately, Joffrey Baratheon is a spanner in the works.





	curtains, or, love in the springtime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Niamh! I hope you like this <333
> 
> Warnings for ableist slurs & behaviour. Also mentions of abuse. 
> 
> Yes this is a very thinly veiled retelling of Singin' In The Rain.
> 
> Also, appropriate listening for this fic is [this album](https://open.spotify.com/album/41IYk39EhBslCktxggf3pM).

“You know what the trouble with Joffers is?”

The Right Hon. Sansa Stark flopped into a chair besides her younger sister. She had given the problem considerable thought. There were plenty of troubles with Joffers. He wore patterned ties and florid waistcoats, for example. He rather subscribed to Moseley and his goons, for another, and thought pouring champagne down drains was an evening’s entertainment. Neither of these bothered her - at this very moment.

The Right Hon. Arya looked up from her hams and at her sister.

“Besides everything,” she said, “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “He’s not that bad.”

“He had to bribe his way onto Eton’s second eleven,” said Arya. “He’s a moron and one day he’ll be a wife beater.”

“Anyway,” said Sansa, determinedly ignoring her sister. “I’ve got it all figured.”

“Well don’t keep us in suspense.”

“The trouble with Joffers is he can’t sing,” said Sansa.

Arya Stark took a single deep breath in, set her fork down by her plate and, with a glare that had scarified generations of the English, stared at her sister.

“Oh,” she said, “and here I thought it was the fact he gives you black eyes for breakfast.”

“Do be a darling and listen,” said Sansa. “If only we could do it like they do in Hollywood.”

“Like Hollywood?” said Arya, struggling to put two and two together. And then, quite suddenly, they clicked. “Oh you mean -”

“What else did you think?”

“Like the _movies_ ,” said Arya. “That’s genius.”

“Quite,” said Sansa. “It’s the how that’s the trouble.”

* * *

The trouble as you might suspect began with the Misses Starks’ reputation for stubbornness and frightfully modish modernity. Other parents threw their daughters at gentlemen of leisure, armed with five digit fortunes. The Starks were eminently more sensible. One might even call them prescient, though the nasties whispered it was the fact they lost their fortune on the exchange. They encouraged their children to work. Arya’s strength was horses, so horses it was for her. Sansa took a dilettante’s delight in trying the world for what it had to offer. She’d tried secretarying, found it atrociously boring, moved to fashion, succeeded mildly but found it wanting. Then came ad-copy (amusing, but too vulgar), a stint at the Tatler ( _fort amusant_ but, darling, the obscenity laws) and once, socialism (so dreadfully _serieux_ , I don’t know how Robb dearest does it).

Now, it was Hollywood. And as everyone knew, one began at home if one wanted the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow - and on the other side of the Atlantic. Dreadfully louche, but good fun if you could make it. Really, it was almost respectable now with all their people sailing away to make their fortune in green dollars.

The trouble was, Sansa Stark had made the mistake of hitching her star to Joffrey Baratheon.

You see, musicals were all the rage. Everyone had one. Well what did you expect, dear? The nights were long, the dresses short and no one wanted to listen to stuffy Beethoven when you could Charleston the night away at Plimm's. They were lining up to throw money into the musicals down in the City. There was good money - if you could make it.

Or, if one, like Joffrey, had willing and indulgent parents.

Ergo, the problem. The Starks were willing, not indulgent. Sansa depended entirely on Joffrey’s continued good will. Not the most satisfactory arrangement, but what could one do? Short of selling out and finding another avenue for her numerous talents (she was assured she could do tennis, if she bothered with her backhand). And no. She rather fancied being able to afford her own Lalique without having to use her pin money.

The trouble was, to wit: Joffrey Baratheon was a selfish cad and a narcissist and so, there wasn’t much leading, so much as damselling and hanging about to make him look good and Sansa loathed this.

* * *

“I know someone who has a smashing voice,” said Arya. “A baritone to die for.”

“No,” said Sansa.

“It’s too perfect, only consider,” said Arya. “And he’s a swell guy.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Sansa. “It does grate on one’s ears.”

“But I’m serious,” Arya replied. “And he knows his horses.”

“I don’t care about his sodding horses.”

“Golly,” said Arya, in her worst imitation American. “If mother could hear you.”

Sansa glared at her.

“What mummy can’t hear won’t hurt her,” she said haughtily.

“If you’re so determined to remain forever -” Arya held up her edition of the Tatler, “Britain’s luminous leading lady spotted dining at the Savoy with the talented Lord Joffrey Baratheon, sources say an engagement is on the cards.”

“But he’s so terribly -” Sansa searched for the right word, “there. Besides, I couldn’t possibly ask him -”

“Don’t worry,” Arya said cheerfully. “I asked him anyway. He said yes.”

* * *

Specifically, Willas Tyrell had blinked at Arya, standing arms akimbo in her jodhpurs and spurs, riding crop in one hand.

“You must help her,” Arya declared impetuously. “You must.”

“But -”

“You’re a gentleman aren’t you?” she demanded.

“I - yes - but, _Arya_ -”

“Well are you or aren’t you?”

He thought about this long and carefully. He thought about this for precisely ten seconds, before concluding that Arya Stark, armed with a riding crop was a decidedly bad proposition.

“All right,” he said, cautiously. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

The trouble was, Lord Joffrey Baratheon, couldn’t hold a note and when he finally caught them, he sang them in a harsh and reedy tenor. He couldn’t act, he couldn’t talk. And the talkies were on their way in.

* * *

“ _She did what?_ ”

Willas Tyrell regarded Sansa with amusement.

“Would you rather I didn’t?” he asked her.

“Yes,” Sansa blurted out. She turned the most lovely shade of red. “No - I mean - what I mean is - _oh Arya_.”

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I think it’s a lark.”

“I suppose you would,” she said disparagingly. “Do you know a thing about film?”

“Not a thing,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve heard you’re in some of them.”

“Oh you’ve heard have you.”

“Distantly,” he said.

“Well thank you very much for offering,” she said. “But I don’t need your help.”

“If you’re sure -”

“Quite,” Sansa said definitely.

A shame. Willas shrugged it off. He was used to rejection, usually confused and apologetic. It was a fresh change, being rejected in a fit of pique and sibling directed ire. And Arya was right. Sansa Stark did rag wonderfully.

* * *

“I don’t know what Sansa’s fed you,” Tyrion said over his glass of wine, “but as a matter of fact we’re a bit stuck, old boy and we’re rather depending on you.”

“So I’ve understood,” Willas replied. “She’s a feisty little thing isn’t she?”

“Too good for my dear nephew if you ask me.” Tyrion sighed. “Young love. They never learn.”

“Oh very,” Willas agreed. “Old man.”

Tyrion’s scowl was unfortunately nowhere as charming as Sansa’s, but unlike hers, had no real anger to it.

“Anyway, the question is will you help us out of this muddle?” said Tyrion. “We’ll have to keep it quiet. Smuggle you in the back, record at midnight and all that.”

“So clandestine.”

“The brat tantrums like a polecat,” said Tyrion by way of explanation. “Had enough of them to last me twenty lifetimes. You’ll get full billing though. Voice by the one and only, the incomparable Willas Tyrell.”

“No money?”

“If you must be so mercenary,” said Tyrion. “I’d have thought the Right Hon. Sansa’s charms were quite enough.”

“Oh she is,” said Willas. “But one does like to keep one’s prospects open.”

“Act one, the pecuniary gentleman of leisure seeks employment?”

“Precisely.”

“If you’re pecuniary I’ll eat my bloody hat,” said Tyrion. “How does one hundred and fifty pounds sound?”

“Is that what they pay the honest working classes of England?” said Willas. “No wonder they keep striking. Don’t make faces at me. Of course I’ll do it.”

* * *

The trouble was, Willas Tyrell did have a dreadfully nice baritone.

* * *

“I don’t know how you can stand it,” she said. “Being stuffed away backstage.”

Willas was watching the dancers on the floor. Sansa wondered if that was a trace of envy in the suddenly harsh lines around his mouth. When he turned to her, however, the harsh lines were gone and he was smiling easily. Devastatingly.

“With the greatest difficulty,” he said, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “There are perks, however.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “I get to sing with the dishiest girl in all of Britain, without having to watch over my shoulder for your fiance.”

Sansa found herself caught between the desire to encourage these highly audacious but extremely acceptable confessions and disavowing any and all knowledge of Joffrey.

What came out was an unutterable mess. “I’m not - he’s not - I mean -”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought it happened somewhere after _Crossed_ \- oh.”

“You said you’d never seen a single one of my films,” she said, recovering swiftly from her fumble. “You _lied_.”

He grinned sheepishly. “I might have. A little. I might have seen two or three, here and there.”

“You wicked, wicked man,” she said.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“No, you’ll only flirt shockingly,” she said. “It won’t do.”

“It’s not shocking if it’s the truth.”

“Really, you are impossible,” she said severely. Then added, somewhat contradictorily. “Anyway, Joff and I aren’t. He tells everyone. It’s most tiresome, really. He didn’t even ask.”

“Shockingly bad manners.”

“Precisely,” she said. “He doesn’t even believe in diamonds.”

“Quite right,” said Willas. “Sapphires for your colouring, my dear.”

“Well he won’t even extend to that,” she said disconsolately. “He doesn’t even dance.”

“Then you must find me a dreadful bore,” Willas replied lightly. “Look if you want to - I won’t stop you -”

Sansa felt the heat rush to her ears. There was no reprimand in his tone, but Sansa kicked herself for having put her foot straight in it.

“Oh no,” she said, impulsively reaching across the table and taking one of his hands in hers. “I didn’t mean - that is, I didn’t think and I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He squeezed her hand gently. “No harm done.”

“No really,” she said. “You’re worth ten of Joff - and you’ve got something he hasn’t.”

“So I’ve been told,” he said. “My charm, my ineffable good looks and my baritone.”

“You ridiculous creature,” she said. “I was going to say something dreadfully nice too. I wash my hands of you.”

“You’ll have to let go to do that,” he said.

“Oh you impossible man,” she cried, snatching her hand back from him.

Willas only laughed, gleefully. Somehow, impossibly, it made her feel warm all over.

* * *

Joffers proposed on the twenty first of March, 1928. It was all terribly proper. Dinner at the Savoy, the theatre afterwards. And then in the cab back home, he took both her hands in his and said artlessly:

“Well how about it then?”

Some said it was under duress. Some said it was his uncle, who didn't fancy a breach of promise suit. Robb said it was about time he came up to scratch. Jon sent a special dispatch from Hong Kong wishing her the very best. Bran sent polite congratulations from Cambridge that left her cold. Arya just looked disappointed.

He gave her diamonds. Heirlooms, he said. His grandmother's. Sansa couldn't help thinking how moonstones would have done better.

Or sapphires.

* * *

Willas watched the flickering people on screen. The black and white forms were a poor copy, a pale shadow of the real thing. On screen, Sansa was luminous. In person - she was dazzling. Infuriating, sometimes, especially when she was being a stuck up prig. Especially now, with her hair twisted up, mouthing the words to the song and the light rippling gently across her features: now lighting those striking blue eyes, now throwing those high cheekbones into relief, now twisting itself like a caress around those auburn curls.

One day they’d learn how to shoot in colour and those pale imitations would be forever banished.

“Got it?” said Tyrion, as the lights came up.

“I think so,” he said.

“Great, let’s keep it rolling - everybody in place? One, two, three, let’s roll it.”

He should have, of course, kept his eyes on the screen. Sansa’s smile was twisted somewhere between amusement, encouragement and - something else. He thought he'd seen glimmers of this something else - something more - several times over the past few weeks. Several times since tea at the Dorchester, at any rate. It was an elusive something, even more elusive now after that damned diamond.

“Well done lovebirds,” said Tyrion, all business, as the music faded out. “Next stop: the Academy - I say, Willas, you could do a career in this.”

The faintest blush crept up Sansa's neck. To her credit, she turned placidly and smiled quite blandly at Tyrion.

“Film,” Tyrion added. “Not -”

Whatever he was going to say was drowned in the sound of the door to the recording room slamming open and Joffrey storming in, accompanied by his sister Myrcella.

“You,” snarled Joffrey, striding in and pointing a quivering finger at Willas. Then he spied his uncle, regarding him with a wry smile. “Traitor!”

“Blotto so early on Joff?” said Tyrion. “Tut tut.”

“What the hell do you think you're playing at?” Joffrey demanded. “Why is _he_ here?”

He said this quite seriously, in a thin and reedy voice that belonged on a rowdy young Etonian.

“I told you,” said Myrcella. “Our own uncle's going to put you out of a job.”

“Thanks 'Cella,” said Joffrey. “You're a real pal unlike some people here.”

The look he shot Sansa was pure venom.

“By all means Joff,” said Tyrion, “hang your dirty linen out in public. Mummy dearest will be so pleased.”

“Insult me all you like,” Willas told the brat, with a vague idea that this was how they did it in the movies and this was what he ought to be doing. He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the cane he used outdoors and away from home. “But you leave Sansa out of this.”

“You think you can play the hero?” Joffrey sneered.

“Joffrey, _please_ ,” said Sansa.

“Look at him,” said Joffrey. “You know you might think you're smart, pulling a fast one like this, but you'll never go on screen and you'll never be a hero with that limp.”

“Joffrey how could you?” said Sansa.

“He's a cripple, Sansa.”

“You beastly coward,” she said. “He's twice the hero you are and at least he didn't get a special dispensation so he could sit out the war at home because he was too bloody scared to join up and defend his country.”

“May I just -” Willas began.

“Silly little girls shouldn't talk about things beyond them,” Joffrey said haughtily.

“Or was it the mud, Joffers? Didn't know how to clean his own socks so he couldn't leave mummy behind -”

Willas tried again. “Can I -”

“How dare you,” hissed Joffrey. “You - you - female - golddigging - _hussy_.”

Sansa looked like she'd been slapped.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. Willas took matters into his own hands. He leaned all his weight on his cane and with his free hand, decked Joffrey in the nose. It was neither precise, scientific or in any way gentlemanly but it did the trick. Joffrey landed on his seat on the floor, a thin trickle of blood flowing from his nose.

“Don’t,” said Willas, very slowly. “Drag Sansa into this.”

“Now that we've got it all out of our systems,” Tyrion said cheerfully, “we can settle this like civilized human beings.”

* * *

The Right Hon. Arya Stark’s policy towards life was painfully simple: it was to be lived footloose and carefree, preferrably with plenty of horses and hunts to entertain her. Worrying, she firmly held, simply interfered with one’s sleep and that was no good. The only way to solve difficult and intractable problems was to sleep on them, ergo, a good night’s rest was vital to the disentangling of everyone’s social lives.

This time, however, she found herself regarding her ceiling gravely, long into the wee hours of the morning.

Any other girl, being called a hussy, would have done the honorable thing and swiftly disposed of her engagement ring. Usually, in her fiance’s face. The diamond ring, however, remained steadfastly on Sansa’s finger. And if Sansa looked paler than usual, or more wan than usual, none of the Stark siblings (or adults, for that matter) were allowed to comment on it.

This would not do.

It was obvious - and really, it was too bad of Sansa to keep on like this when there was a perfectly respectable gentleman in the offing. And the ring was hideous. Sentimental value was all very well but when it interfered with fashion it was unforgivable - and for someone like Sansa too. Arya was eminently sensible about her own looks; most fashions gave her the air of a freak and the dresses always made her want to itch at her shoulders. But Sansa had always been the smart one and even _Arya_ could tell the ring was a hideous monstrosity that belonged on a corpse and not on Sansa.

Besides, it made Willas a dead bore and it was one thing to have one’s sibling moping around the house and it was another to have one’s fellow sporting companion moping around, utterly ruining everything for everyone. Even Margaery had been forced to comment on it at last night’s party.

“If you don’t cheer up right this very instant,” she’d said, “we’ll simply have to kick you out and send you on one of Clovis’ unrest cures and then you shall be even more uncomfortable.”

Clearly, the issue was not one of feelings. The feelings were willing, the flesh was not. A holiday in a locked room, together, would have done nicely. Sansa could hardly ignore Willas if she was stuffed in a broom cupboard with him. However, there were no broom cupboards at hand and even if she did, Mummy would be terribly displeased and lecture endlessly about young ladies and how they ought to behave even if in her heart of hearts she knew Arya was quite correct.

It was really too vexing.

* * *

“What,” said Sansa, storming into Tyrion’s office, “is the meaning of this?”

She waved the latest edition of _News of The World_ at Tyrion. In three inch headlines, on the front page, ran the words: _JOFFREY BARATHEON: HE SINGS! HE DANCES! HE  TALKS!_

“Willas was supposed to get full billing,” she continued, before Tyrion could answer. “It’s absolutely shabby of you.”

“Necessary to preserve the illusion, my dear,” he said.

“Did you tell Willas yourself?” she said. “Or did you think, oh no, I’ll just wait for him to open the papers tomorrow morning and surprise him?”

“You seem to care a great deal about Willas’ feelings,” said Tyrion.

Sansa could feel herself colouring but persisted. “You made him a promise -”

“Yes,” said Tyrion. “And my darling sister got in the way. Now you tell me how I should look Cersei in the eye and tell her the terms of contract don’t hold for my own precious nevvy?”

“What?”

Tyrion sighed. “My sister’s a clever woman, Sansa. I’m stuck with a brat who can’t act for the next five years.”

Sansa sank into a chair, disbelieving. “No.”

“Oh yes,” said Tyrion bitterly. “And I’m to be sued for libel if I step out of line.”

“Good god,” said Sansa, slowly digesting this. “And the -?”

“Full control of his own publicity. It’s in the contract,” he replied, with one of his twisted smiles. “Families. Truly wonderful microcosms of humanity, aren’t they?”

Sansa elected to ignore this piece of eminently good advice.

“But he can’t do this,” she said. “You’ve got your own contract with Willas.”

“You naive, sweet child,” said Tyrion. “No, not unless we want to be put out of business, on the streets and without a name to ourselves. I don’t quite fancy that, not even for poor old Willas’ honour. I rather like being able to pop a bottle of Bollinger every now and then.”

Sansa pondered this, chin on her hand.

“Couldn’t we -” she began.

“No,” he said. “You’ll have to continue making all the speeches for the next five years at least.”

“Poor Willas.”

Tyrion tilted his head and regarded her.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he said. “But may I advise you as at least half a mentor?”

“You may advise me,” said Sansa. “But I might choose not to listen.”

“Objection noted,” Tyrion replied. “And now my advice. If you’re smart you’ll get yourself shackled to one of the lions in London Zoo instead of my nephew. If you’re wise, you’ll take the fellow dangling after you before he blue-devils us all to hell.”

“Hmmm,” said Sansa. “Advice noted - and rejected. I can handle myself quite well, thank you very much.”

* * *

“I know it’s dreadfully fast,” said Arya, “but you’re the only person I can think of who could pull it off.”

Margaery gnawed at her thumbnail as she considered this. The hunt was good fun, but April was coming and soon there would be nothing at all to do until June at least. Things were dreadfully slow nowadays and she had two brothers in love and determined to be the worst sports about it.

“One only lives once,” she said. “Poor Sansa dear. Are you sure she won’t be cut up about it?”

* * *

“Speech?” said Tyrion. “They don’t want speeches. Podrick tell them they don’t want speeches.”

Podrick wrung his hands despairingly. “But sir -”

An enterprising young rowdy had started them drumming their feet on the floor. The rumbling joined the increasingly demanding chants for a speech. Willas peered around the curtain.

“They do sound dreadfully excited don’t they?” Margaery whispered in his ear.

Willas looked down at his sister. The blinking, innocent gaze that met him didn’t fool him for a moment.

“I don’t know what trouble it is you’re planning,” said Willas. “But for God’s sake Margaery, not tonight.”

“Oh hush,” she said, standing on her tiptoes and lightly kissing his cheek. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Margaery _no_ ,” he said. It was, as the railway novels say, too late.

“I think a speech is a wonderful idea,” said Margaery, tucking her arm confidingly Joffrey’s. “Don’t you?”

Willas, torn between wanting to sink into the ground and run - preferably to another country, watched in horror as Margaery then made a point of arranging the carnation in Joffrey’s buttonhole.

Sansa’s eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing. Somehow this made it all the worse.

“But sir,” said Podrick, finally mustering the ability to finish his sentences. “They _want_ a speech.”

“Tell them they can all go hang themselves,” said Tyrion. “And take their boots and -”

“I can -” Sansa began. Joffrey cut her off.

“Forget it,” said Joffrey. “I’ve had it with all of you making speeches for me. I’m making my own speech tonight.”

“Oh Joffrey,” Margaery sighed. “Always so _manful_.”

“Joffrey _no_ ,” said Sansa. “No you musn’t -”

Oberyn Martell, hitherto a silent if sardonic observer - much in the same way he was a sleeping partner in Tyrion’s studio - pushed himself away from the pillar and caught Sansa before she could stop Joffrey from being eaten alive.

“But my dear girl,” he said, “we must toast the star of our studio. After all, where would we be without him?”

“Exactly,” said Margaery. “Where would you be?”

“This is Joffrey’s big night,” said Oberyn. “He’s entitled to do the talking, eh Tyrion?”

The last time Tyrion had that dangerous glint in his eye, it was 1919, he’d just released a real live bear, three monkeys, a peacock and the all the hounds of the Casterly Hunt into the Tarlys’ ballroom and pinched Lord Tarly’s prized silver Garrard cow-creamer in the middle of all the excitement. For precisely two weeks, he’d been the most wanted man in all of England, until the creamer had surfaced, quite innocently, in Sir Baelish’s stables. The resulting furor, feuds and scandal had entertained the British Isles for an entire year.

Willas, seeing it again, felt his heart plummet straight down into his shoes.

“Quite right and proper,” said Tyrion.

Willas could already hear them booing on the other side.

“You’ll get your chance soon enough, my dear,” said Oberyn. “Very soon.”

“Oh,” said Sansa. “ _Oh_.”

Joffrey came running back.

“I say,” he bleated. “They want a song.”

“Well Joff,” said Tyrion. “If they want a song, you _must_ give them a song.”

“Oh Joffrey you _must_ sing,” said Margaery, clasping both of Joffrey’s hands. Sansa, Willas noticed, seemed completely unbothered by this. “You absolutely must, darling.”

Joffrey stamped his foot. “Dash it all uncle, you know damn well I can’t sing.”

“Don’t worry Joffrey dearest.”

Sansa was smiling the oddest smile as she said it. Then she turned to him.

“Willas will help you, won’t you Willas?”

* * *

Sansa finally allowed herself to look at Willas. He was as handsome as ever, though she rather preferred it when his brown curls tumbled artistically across his forehead. In a few rare moments she’d even allowed herself to imagine pushing them back before she’d severely reprimanded herself. But now -

Now - well - she hardly had to continue wearing that silly ring, did she? Not with Joffrey clearly dangling after Margaery.

“What,” said Willas faintly.

“You mean I just go out there and mime?” said Joffrey. “The way we -”

“Yes Joffrey,” said Sansa, still looking up at Willas. “Exactly like that.”

“Of course Willas will do it,” said Margaery, very matter-of-factly. “He has a contract.”

The lines around Willas’ mouth tightened.

“Of course he has,” said Lord Martell. “Five years.”

“Please Willas,” she said. “You must do it. For me.”

Sansa winced inwardly at the harsh and unforgiving expression on Willas’ face.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “I hope the two of you are happy together. You deserve each other.”

“Puppy love,” Margaery said sagely, as Willas stormed off. “He’ll come around.”

* * *

“What are we singing?” Joffrey whispered at the curtain separating the two of them.

Willas sighed and rolled his eyes. “Singing in the Rain.”

* * *

“But will he?” said Sansa, as the music started to play.

“He’ll come around,” said Margaery. “He always does. Is it time?”

“Not yet,” said Oberyn, looking at his pocket watch.

“Lovely tune,” said Tyrion, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Almost makes one feel sentimental.”

“Singing, just singing in the rain,” hummed Oberyn, tugging on the rope that hauled the curtains up and down across the screen. “Shall we?”

“With great pleasure,” said Tyrion.

And then the two of them, along with Margaery, raised the curtains.

* * *

There was a single long moment between the curtains going up and the crowd starting to boo. Willas stared in horror at the sea of faces. He stood there, paralyzed by fear, heat creeping up his neck. There was a loud roaring in his ears.

Sansa was clever. He’d never imagined she could be cruel.

Then Sansa was running out from the wings and she’d grabbed his arm and was singing into the microphone.

Joffrey, out in front, looked for his uncle. Tyrion saluted amiably from the wings.

With a shriek, Joffrey turned and bolted from the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Sansa, still clutching Willas’ arm. “The real hero of _The Go-Getter_ was not Lord Joffrey, but Lord Willas Tyrell. It is his voice you heard on screen, his voice that entertained you tonight. Please, a round of applause for his incredible and talented work.”

Willas turned to look at her.

“Sansa -” he began.

“Willas my dearest,” she said softly. “My darling. Will you have me?”

“Really Miss Stark,” he said. “How terribly forward of you.”

Somewhere, he dimly registered the curtains descending and Tyrion making a speech out front.

“You were so horribly distant,” she said. Then added candidly, “And Joffrey deserved every bit of it.”

“True,” he said. “Next time, just warn me in advance.”

“Next time?” she said, eyebrows raised. “Are you going to marry me, Willas Tyrell?”

He kissed her. It was, he felt, the only appropriate answer.

“Oh and Willas,” said Sansa, breathily, several long and highly satisfactory moments later, “next time?”

“Hmmm?”

“I can take care of myself,” she said. “Quite well, in fact.”

**Author's Note:**

> All of this is written based entirely on my sketchy knowledge of Britain in the '20s, jazz & also various authors from the time period. Please excuse any and all anachronisms. 
> 
> Plimms, to my knowledge, does not exist. 
> 
> The Go-Getter is a short story by P. G. Wodehouse.


End file.
